


oblivion

by IronButterfly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Mary is not pregnant in this fic, season three spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronButterfly/pseuds/IronButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are a hard case, my friend. You're knocking yourself out because you won't accept the facts about yourself." The good doctor smiled wryly. Who would have thought that a heartless sociopath, as the detective still firmly persisted, would have so much capacity to...feel? To be so human. </p><p>But Sherlock Holmes did not respond. His consciousness had remained deeply burrowed in the further corners of his mind for the last two days.</p><p>John Watson tried not to let his heart break, realising that now he might just discovered a new, permanent pressure point for himself.</p><p>AU: Takes place during 'His Last Vow', right after Mary's confrontation at 221B and Sherlock's collapsing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the silent hour

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely different take on the last episode of the third season and once again-Mary is not pregnant. This is all for now. Thank you for reading. x
> 
> [This story is now being betaed by the wonderful Nickygp!]

There was a spot of blood on the nurse's uniform. She was fixing an IV full of fluids. Glucose, perhaps, as it would counteract the effects of a severe insulin shock. She soon left with not so much as a glance in their general direction. That, John thought, was the most unnerving thing about hospitals. All the staff members were cold and unfeeling, as if they were made of some dark wood. They almost always avoided eye contact and polite conversation, as if it were banned from the foundations. As if the hospital had drained away their humanity.

 

But he had already grown accustomed to it, so he paid no attention to his surroundings or to the smell of medication and morphine, that lingered in the air. Instead, he found himself drawn to the pale figure lying, unmoving, in the bed. He shifted his chair closer, producing an ugly creak; it was the only sound in the thick silence of the room, besides the other man's hard and labored breathing.

 

"You will be glad to know that Lestrade forbade any drug busts, in your absence at least." he said softly as he,ever so gently, reached and cradled the detective's left hand in his own. "You should have seen Anderson's face, though. His jaw dropped to the floor."

 

At this, John let out a dry chuckle, which felt odd and surprising coming from his mouth. Any thought of light heartiness and joy left him, though, as he let his eyes fall back on the tall, curly haired man. Sherlock looked impossibly fragile. John had become so used to seeing the detective in his hyperactive and witty ways, that seeing him now, so unnaturally still, unsettled John immensely. His gaze traveled down to the tightly bandaged area of the man's slender chest, and quickly averted his eyes, as spots of pink had already made their way through the material. This, of course, was silly because he was a doctor himself, and such a sight should not disturb him as much as it did.

 

"Work," he cleared his throat. "I should have stayed at the office tonight. I have some things on my desk that I have to report on Monday morning. But, by Friday night, I get tired of work." he laughed again, low. "The fact is, I'm beginning to get tired of work quite early in the week nowadays. Like, Monday morning at ten o'clock."

 

John slightly tightened his grip on the man's hand, as if that would somehow earn him an answer or, at least, a reaction. With a sigh, John began tracing the knuckles of Sherlock's limp hand; an action that had been repeated so often, it had become automatic.

 

"John?"

 

John grimaced at the feminine voice, but was much too weary to let any of his anger and hurt surface. Not now. Not in front of the man who had paid so much for the unhealthy, and short lived, marriage between him and Mary...or whatever her name was.

 

"John, please." The woman tried again, her voice cracking. "You've been sitting here for the past two days. You need to, at least, eat something."

 

John shifted into a position that turned his back fully towards the woman; his eyes not once leaving Sherlock's close lidded ones. That and the fact that the hospital stools were particularly unforgivable to those who had been doing a lot of cycling as of lately...

 

Mary sighed when it became apparent that her pleading was going to be left unanswered. She could only look helplessly at the crouched form of her husband...or former husband, for the matter.

 

"John," she said softly, "I'm worried about you."

 

"Worried?" He echoed, surprised. "Why?"

 

"When you're alone, when you're stressed -just like now- you look, well, I guess... melancholic." Mary stammered out, but she couldn't hide her relief, even if she wanted to.

 

"What've _I_ got to be melancholic about?" John inquired, the edge in his voice too sharp to make the question a mock.

 

"Oh, darling," she mumbled sadly.

 

"It's too late for darlings, don't you think?" John snapped unsympathetically.

 

"Do you want a divorce?"

 

The good doctor inhaled and finally turned around in his place, facing her tensely and accusingly. Mary's eyes were fixed firmly on his, demanding an answer. Her back was against the door; a prosecuting attorney nearing the bitter end of a long trial.

 

John sighed. "I don't know what I want, except that I need him," he made a head gesture towards the detective. "to wake up as soon as possible. Tomorrow you can take the car- it's your car anyway, and..."

 

"Our car." she said.

 

 _There is no more our! There's only yours and mine from now on. And, tomorrow, you'll take the car, drive into the city, and take every last thing of yours out of my flat..._ John thought cruelly, but he said nothing aloud. Now, that would be rushing. He could almost hear the detective's disapproving voice in his head, firmly ordering him not to act on sentiment.

 

For now, he settled on ignoring the woman, who was attempting to start a conversation, and focused solemnly on Sherlock. He looked back at the big cot and the man laying there. John knew that he couldn't stay there forever (well, as long as it would take the detective to wake up). There were things that needed to be taken care of: his wife for one, work. Mrs. Hudson was still waiting for news, there were two more visitors waiting outside and, among other things, he desperately wanted to take a shower.

 

But the mere sight of those tussled curls, and the sound of Sherlock's pained exhales, was enough to keep him glued to his spot. Nope. Definitely not moving.

 

"John..." Another murmured plea. John shut his eyes tightly. If somehow...by some miraculous force, he managed to survive these few days, then nothing else would be able to destroy him. Ever.

 

The good doctor snapped his head up at the same time Mary closed her mouth. There was a light knock at the door, which soon opened to reveal one Mycroft Holmes. John sighed, whether it was from relief or from tiredness, was hard to tell.

 

"Mrs. Morstan, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave. There are several pressing matters I must discuss with your..." he paused, "with John."

 

That caught her attention. She had let it wander for the last few minutes; that was not good. She gave a tight nod and gazed hopefully at the back of John's head.

 

"Will you go home tonight?" she asked gently. John had the sudden urge to throw something heavy at the wall or, even better, hit himself with it on the head before throwing it. Well, at least she had had the decency to say go and not come.

 

He never turned around and he never answered. Mary left, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

 

"Never thought I'd say this, but thank you, Mycroft."

 

The man only acknowledged John with a raised brow and, with his previous confident manner, fetched a chair for himself and moved to sit at the table. John suspected the man was just trying to be within eyesight.

 

"If it's of any use to your ego." Mycroft said, "It was never my intention to get involved. You may resolve your issues any way you find convenient. I, however, did want to see the progress of my dear brother."

 

"I see. Then I must disappoint you, 'cause there's no progress whatsoever. Nothing. Nada. Zilch."

 

"Hmm."

 

And there it was again, that awkward and uncomfortable silence that always seemed to follow the two of them like a shadow. Even after resolving the whole 'fake suicide' incident, John still struggled to maintain any sort of conversation with the elder Holmes. What were they going to talk about anyway? Sherlock was always a popular theme among their limited variety.

 

"Have you told your parents?" John asked, after a few minutes of probing through his brain.

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John-"

 

"Alright, sorry-"

 

"of course, I haven't."

 

"What?" John turned, suddenly furious. "Why the hell not?"

 

"Because it is Sherlock. Mother worries enough as it is."

 

"Still."

 

John couldn't tell where this sudden protectiveness and stubbornness were coming from, but he hoped his courage wouldn't fail him any time soon. It was always at times like this that he remembered what sort of man Mycroft Holmes was and why his best friend loathed him.

 

Out of instinct, his hand shot out to where Sherlock's was, and just when he was about to reach over for the larger hand, he stopped, remembering that he was no longer alone in the room. Instead, he laid it near Sherlock's hand, as if the close proximity would somehow calm his friend. To be frank, John did it more for his own reassurance than anything else.

 

Mycroft did not miss the motion, but chose to ignore it. He cleared his throat and said. "Did you know that, once, he didn't speak for nearly two weeks?"

 

John immediately understood who the man was talking about, and his eyes widened."Two weeks...?"

 

"Exactly. If I'm not mistaken, he was ten at the time and it was after Red Beard's passing." At the good doctor's half perplexed and half sympathetic expression, he clarified. "His dog. Had to be put to sleep, the poor bastard."

 

"No. Sherlock never said anything about his childhood...Actually, I've just recently discovered your parents."

 

"Well, if he had told you, I believe he would have mentioned all the other times he spent following and exploring the routes of his Mind Palace, and forgot to actually bring himself back to reality."

 

"Wait, that has happened before?"

 

"More times than I can count."

 

"Why would he...I mean, I know that he uses his palace to remember things and put all the information in order but, can he really do that? Just...cut himself off, whenever he wants to?"

 

"Yes."

 

John didn't move; he just rubbed his eyes wearily. He looked up at the ceiling and chuckled humorlessly, then dropped his head on his chest and sat staring at Sherlock. After so many years of knowing the git, there were still things he didn't know coming out of nowhere and, unsurprisingly, not one of them was a pleasant one. If the detective would have been awake now, John would have gladly taken the lanky man by the shoulders, and would have shaken him until he had forced at least some sense into Sherlock.

 

But then again, John probably wouldn't. He'd just end up hugging the idiot.

 

"Why? I can understand that time with the dog...but the other times? He couldn't have been that bored, could he?" That was as much as the good doctor allowed himself to ask, without appearing to be nosy or ignorant.

 

Mycroft's lips quirked up a bit at the edges in, what must have been, a smile, and said. "It's a funny thing about parents, John. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister one could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful. They may become so blinded by adoration, that they manage to convince themselves their child has certain qualities of a genius."

 

John narrowed his eyes slightly, regarding the government worker with a blank look, and Mycroft carried on explaining.

 

"Occasionally, one comes across parents who take the opposite line, Like ours. It is bad enough when parents treat ordinary children as though they were scabs and bunions, but it becomes a lot worse when the child in question is extraordinary."

 

This left John contemplating several things, such as what the detective's life must have really been like to drive him to such lengths as to not speak or react to the outside world. Although it seemed unbelievable, now that he personally knew the Holmes' parents... Perhaps they hadn't realized, still didn't realize, that their children were far from ordinary. Maybe everyone else Sherlock had known had failed to notice that too...

 

His own musings struck him all at once and, without thinking twice, John did reach over and took Sherlock's hand this time.

 

"So, you mean to say that he could be doing that now?"John asked, trying to make sense of their conversation. "Is he stuck in his own head and has forgotten to come back?"

 

there was a, momentarily, troubled look on Mycroft's face, but soon he nodded."I have my doubts."

 

"Is it not the same thing as coma?"

 

"Almost. Yes."

 

"So we just wait until he gets better, then."

 

"No. We wait until he decides to return to his senses."

 

"What are you talking about?" John hissed, confused and slightly annoyed. "One can not just _choose_ to come back from the other side, Mycroft!"

 

"And has he not done that already?"

 

That silenced John for a long while. He could tell that the discussion had ended, even though he had understood very little of it. Mycroft rose from his seat, collected his phone from the table, and smoothly made his way to the door.

 

"Oh, by the way," John shook his head lightly, to shake himself out of his reverie, and looked up at the man. "Gregory is waiting for you in the cafeteria. I'm fairly certain he mentioned something about dinner and down nuts..."

 

"Doughnuts."

 

"Precisely. Good evening." And with that, Mycroft left.

 

John shook his head once again. Various thoughts were now flooding his mind, tumbling over each other, and not giving him peace. He could not call the day an eventful one, but hell had it been tiresome.

 

A sharp intake of breath from the detective had John swiftly turning his full attention towards the man. And seeing a harsh furrow in Sherlock's brow, sent a sympathetic pain through John's chest. He could almost imagine a young, reckless Sherlock, so devastated by the loss of his pet, or frustrated by the fact that no one understood him, or just generally upset with the world, finding it better off to live in his brilliant head. To exist in an imaginary place that would simply allow him to remember things.

 

"You are a hard case, my friend. You're knocking yourself out, because you won't accept the truth about yourself." The good doctor smiled wryly. Who would have thought that a heartless sociopath, as the detective still insisted, would have so much capacity to...feel? To be so human.

 

But Sherlock Holmes did not respond. His consciousness had remained deeply burrowed in the fathomless corners of his mind for the last two days.

 

John Watson tried not to let his heart break at the lack of response; probably something sarcastic or rude would be very much welcomed at the moment.

 

"I'll be back in a moment." John assured no one in particular, and gave Sherlock's hand one last squeeze before, finally, abandoning his seat, satisfied that he had made his point clear.

 

John went out, realizing that he might have just discovered himself a new, permanent, pressure point.

 

 

 


	2. Talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters from the show. 
> 
> Also this work is not betaed, so please excuse some minor errors. Thank you. x

So much noise. He could hear a chorus of people yelling _hang on, hang on_. Why, was he going somewhere? The symphony of an ambulance car, the sound of rolling wheels against a marble surface... it all stopped so abruptly, as if by command. It all went quiet, except he could still hear Bach's Partita No. 1. How _Curious_.

This meant that he was either still at Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson's radio had somehow repaired itself, or it was just broadcasting elsewhere...wherever he was.

At first, he figured that everything was fine, as he could still hear Bach's symphony. Then there was the fact that he was standing in a dimly lit hallway. He looked down; he was still wearing the black suit, the pair of shoes he had put on in the morning and, of course, the coat. It was all fine then.

He began to walk, briefly noticing that the bullet wound was not bothering him in the slightest, and started taking his steps more confidently. There, everything was fine. John had been fussing over him like a mother hen, before suggesting something even more absurd; casting Mary away, only because of a mere scratch. The outcome could have been worse, but it hadn't, and John deserved to be happy... _Even if he chose he_ r. Sherlock's shoulders lightly dropped.

Sherlock came to a sudden halt and frowned, realizing something; either the hall was very long, or he was just walking very slowly. It was too dark to see much of anything. Nevertheless, he looked at the walls, to his left and right, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards, book- shelves, and portraits. It looked a lot like his mind palace, he thought. His eyes widened slightly.

_Ah._

That would explain everything, except that he didn't remember coming here to think. How interesting. The detective shook his head, as if trying to convince himself; he needed to go back or John would worry. The good man always did when Sherlock didn't respond for too long. Sherlock closed his eyes, placing his palms under his chin in a praying position, and tried to slow down his thoughts, to control them, to stop them. He imagined the exit in the dark tunnels of his palace, and walked towards it. And , much to his surprise, the next time he opened his eyes, he was still standing where he had been; In the corridor, in front of a picture depicting a man in a crown, who was staring manically down at him.

_Wait what?_

This had never happened before. He had always, _always_ , been able to leave his head when necessary. The few times that he had actually stayed there for a long while had been because, well, he had preferred to remain there. Did this mean that this place was not the mind palace he was familiar with? He tried not to let panic overwhelm him, and searched for the next logical explanation...Nightmares. He flicked a finger triumphantly.

Hastily, Sherlock outstretched his left arm before him and, with the other hand, pinched himself as hard as he could. He had had nightmares before; falling-from-rooftops type of nightmares, losing-John type of nightmares, but he had always been able to command himself awake. That's what Sherlock Holmes could do. He could will his head to lift up from the pillow, to stop the horror movie from playing behind his closed lids. He tried again. Wake up! He screamed. _Wake up! Wakeupwakeupwakeup!_ But he couldn't. He didn't.

Then he heard something; It was the music. He could still hear the music! So he concentrated on that. He allowed the sound to guide his steps back to its place of origin as he played the notes of Bach's Partita No. 1 in the air; he often did this when he listened to pieces he was working on. John called it "air violin". He'd always ask Sherlock if one day they could play a duet; John on his air clarinet and him on his air violin. And the detective realized that he'd give away about anything right now to do just that.

He looked up, but it was all dark overhead. Before him was another long passage, and there was a little boy, who looked no older than nine years old, standing in the middle of it, playing. The. Violin. And, oh, The way he was playing it! His movements were delicate, yet very decided. His bowing motion was precise and agile, adding a certain elegance to the proper technique. Sherlock stood stupefied, staring as the kid, whose face was mostly hidden under a shadow, moved his wrist with grace and a sense of refinement. He held the instrument as if it were a fragile animal; a bird or a small rodent... He held it with enough conviction to not drop it, or hurt it but, at the same time, was gentle enough so as to not crush it.

Soon enough, the little musician started moving to the rhythm of the symphony and, the slightest turn of his head in Sherlock's direction, left the detective gaping and blinking rapidly at the small form of the kid he thought he recognized.

"Archie?" he blurted without thinking, and almost immediately regretted doing so as the boy stopped playing. And moving.

_No. Nonono_. He didn't want him to stop. Sherlock never wanted Archie to stop playing. Well, he was almost certain that it was Archie. The truth was that he hadn't gotten to fully see the kid's face. All he had been able to make out from his angle were the mop of unruly hair and the fragile body structure that looked a lot like Archie's.

After an uneventful minute of silence, the boy turned and hurried down the long passage.

"No, wait! It's me..." Sherlock cursed under his breath and bolted after him. But, when he turned the corner, the boy was nowhere to be seen. He found himself in a long, low hall, which was lit by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. There were doors all around the hall, but they were all locked. He had been all the way down to one end of the hall and back up to the other, trying every door. He walked sadly down to the middle, wondering how he was going to get out of here. He needed to go back to John.

* * *

 

_The wound was no longer closed, thus it was bleeding heavily. Mr. Holmes didn't seem to feel the pain and so he did not go into a panic...the pain hit afterwards._

"Oh. Well, a few weeks ago Mrs. Turner said, in that silly jesting way of hers that isn't joking at all - you know what I mean. Anyway, she said, right in front of Carl - I am positive she meant to do it that way - that she thought..."

_We're more worried about the massive internal blood loss than organ damage or external bleeding._

"... he didn't mean to marry at all, because he hadn't set a date. She didn't go so far as to say that he had made the whole thing up,"

_We did all we could to stop the bleeding and swelling, but the extent of the injury will only be clear when he wakes._

"...although I'm certain that that's what she wanted to say, for she knows that Carl won't listen to her speak an ill word about his nephew."

_There's still brain activity, but it may lessen._

"That's why she always couches her statements in that pseudo-laughing way. But she said, reminded him really, with a false little titter,..."

_Pardon my honesty, sir, but given that his heart stopped during the surgery, we're not certain he'll recover._

"That he had always been so set against marriage...John, are you listening to me at all?"

 

Mrs. Hudson let out an indignant huff in the doctor's general direction, oblivious of the thoughts that had captured John's attention.

"No, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry." John sighed wearily as he rubbed his tired eyes. "I'm just...I don't know anymore."

 

The older woman smiled sadly at the man, who was half-sitting and half-bending on his chair, near the bed. She didn't miss the hollowness in John's voice, and she almost regretted opening her mouth in the first place.

"Oh, dear. Do you want to talk about it? Maybe I can somehow help. In my times, when a couple was on the edge of..."

"I don't think you can, Mrs. H." He told her gently, "Those were different times."

"Every second is a different time." She retorted, straightening her posture. "That doesn't stop people from making the same mistakes. Now come here and sit by your landlady."

 

John blinked a few times at the woman, not moving, and only rose from his seat when Mrs. Hudson made an impatient sound and patted the stool next to her. He scuttled across the room and, only with a moment's hesitation, joined her by the table.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, not quite sure what he was supposed to say. But then he said. "Do you think...Could I have a bit more of that herbal tea? It helped me warm up."

"Of course, of course. Here." Mrs. Hudson gave him an encouraging smile, hoping that it would be enough to make the doctor feel more comfortable around her, and hurried to serve the requested tea.

 

She carefully placed a mug in front of John, before stealing a glance at Sherlock's prone form. She pursed her lips in a tight line and hastily lowered her head, walking back to her spot. Seeing the younger man in such a condition made the old woman feel as if someone had ripped a hole through her soul. Especially now, after all that they had been through. She didn't want to even consider the scenario of losing Sherlock again. For real, this time.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, trying to shake away the depressing image, and turned her attention back to the doctor, who was watching, intently, the pale whips of steam rising from the mug, filling the hospital air with the rich earthy scent of tea.

She reached over and placed a comforting hand on the man's stiff shoulder." John, you do not have to tell me if it makes you uneasy..."

At this, John straightened in his seat and took a tentative sip from his cup."No. I must tell someone or I'll burst. I have been thinking about it since I drove down here. Truth is, I've thought of little else for weeks. I don't know what to do...how to extricate myself from this mess I've created."

"Oh, John, none of this is your fault." assured Mrs. Hudson, but John cut her off with a humorless laugh.

"It is all, in fact, my fault! It is my fault that Sherlock is now in this bloody hospital, restless in that stupid coma. It is my fault that my wife turned out to be an assassin and shot my best friend, dammit!"

He looked up at his former landlady, and his gaze softened instantly, when he saw the almost frightened expression on the poor woman's face. Now, he had scared off the one person who was willingly trying to help with his hysterical outburst. _Brilliant_!

John put his hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Sorry, I just...I just don't understand...how? Somehow, it had never occurred to me that she...There had been no signs. Womanly deceit hurts."

"Those aren't exactly the risks one takes when marrying, are they?" Mrs. Hudson agreed kindly and leaned in, so that John would look at her. "But John, you chose to marry her. You loved her, and you shared almost a year and a half of domestic life with her. Don't tell me it's nothing. You couldn't have enjoyed the bliss of cohabitation with your significant other if you didn't feel like..."

"I did. Love her, that is. Maybe I still do. But let me tell you something about my domestic life-" John took a deep breath, if ever there was a time for truth and resolution, this was it- "I despise it. If I thought I had to continue living like this for the rest of my life...I'd be that twelve-year-old boy, who contemplated escaping to the army, again"

"Melodrama." Mrs. Hudson nodded sympathetically.

"Call it what you will." he said. "With a child, I'd be locked in for good. The chains would be permanent."

The older woman raised a questioning brow at him."I suppose Sherlock qualifies as one of those chains, too."

John's expression turned quickly from anger to honest hurt. "You know I don't think that, Mrs. Hudson."

"I don't know what you think, my boy."

"Neither do I." John sighed.

Then they both resumed doing what they'd been busy doing for the past two weeks; watching the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, as he remained in a state of unnatural sleep. It was a better alternative than continuing with the current thread of conversation and, for a while, John stubbornly refused to meet the woman's eyes. Then he noticed Mrs. Hudson open her mouth; she looked like she wanted to say something cheery and supportive. But, whatever it was she had been planning to say, died in her throat at the sight of him, sagged in his chair, and she snapped her mouth shut. He took pity on the woman.

"I called him a psychopath." John began, but his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. "He could die believing that that's what I think of him."

"John..."Mrs. Hudson murmured sadly as she suddenly had an epiphany. Sherlock Holmes' death might devastate her, but it would surely break John Watson. It would destroy him, much like it had two years ago. "And if he were awake right now, what would you say to him?"

"I...I don't. Maybe I would..." He tried again. "I think...we didn't exactly part as friends, so...I think I would probably apologize for that."

John paused to draw in a harsh breath, unsure of what he wanted to add...there was so much he wanted to say. So many unspoken words, even he himself was unaware of.

"Oh, John. You ought to know that you can't offer just friendship to someone who expects so much more from you." Mrs. Hudson's tone was gentle, but there was an odd gleam in her eyes that spoke louder than her own implications.

John frowned, not catching on immediately."What do you me- For _God_ 's sake, Mrs. Hudson!" _The nerve of the woman_! "Let's not start with that, please! How many times must I tell you that we were - are- only good..."

"But, John you weren't _there_! You didn't see how heartbroken he was. How miserable!" She waited for a moment, taking John's silence as permission for her to continue. "He didn't eat, he didn't sleep...he hardly ever came out of his flat. He...he was like a wild animal, cornered and ready to bolt at a moment's notice"

Her words seemed to have had the desired effect on the good doctor. She could swear that the John who had moved into Baker Street, and had gotten used to living on the rush of crime- solving and adrenaline just like the detective, was right in front of her. And Mrs. Hudson felt the way she had a few years ago, before the horrid jump. For a moment, it was all there.

Then, in a blink, he was gone and the wounded best friend, the wounded husband...the wounded John was back, and was grieving even more than before.

"We talked about it. He knew that marriage wouldn't change anything. We'd still be friends and..."

"Dr. Watson!" If this was her only chance to get something through John's thick skull, then she would not pass on such an opportunity. "You're missing the point completely. Friends don't look... like that at each other..."

"Can we please change the subject?" John stood up and began pacing. "Please. I have no heart to argue with you right now."

"Very well." She said indignantly, and also rose from her seat."But, you should know that it wasn't just your delusional housekeeper that left the wedding thinking that the best man was hopelessly in love with the groom."

"Mrs. Hudson, I was _right_ there! Getting married. To a woman. And don't you- wait, do you mean...someone else thought...thinks that he...that I."

The shrug and the expression that Mrs. Hudson gave him could only be described as comical, but it was the only confirmation that John needed; there where more than a few people having suspicions.

He groaned and hid his face in the palms of his hands, mortified and awfully confused.

"Oh God...How can this be...?"Then he began shaking his head frantically. "But he's...he's Sherlock bloody Holmes. He can't. He couldn't...could he really...?"

John whispered, looking brokenly at the older woman, and his voice was so small, so quiet...begging for the truth. Wanting and not wanting it to be true; both at the same time.

Satisfied with that revelation, while trying not to show her amusement through her expression, Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms across her chest and smiled knowingly at the bewildered doctor.

"My dear John, I wonder how much longer you'll go around without seeing that Sherlock Holmes is a _lying_ liar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are several reasons why I'm not entirely certain about this chapter. For one, I wrote this in the middle of the night, not so much as looking it over once afterwards. Two- I realized that I had no idea how to write someone in a coma. And three- I'm just generally not so sure about this chapter. I think I need sleep.
> 
> Thank you for reading and for the amazing response you're leaving, it his highly appreciated, and literally makes me happy inside.


	3. Fatality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a weird chapter to write...like until the very end, I wasn't sure what I was doing with it. I'm still not sure, truth be told, I can only assure you that there's lots of angst in this one.
> 
> So yeah. Enjoy your read, and also this work is not being betaed due to my lack of betareaders and also because I can't be arsed to get one. So please, excuse some of the mistakes or typos.

 

_Am I dead?_

Sherlock actually had to ask himself.

 

_Am I dead?_

 

At first it seemed pretty obvious that he was. That the visiting-his-mind-palace part was temporary; an intermission, before the bright light and the life-flashing before him business that would transport him wherever he was going next. 

 

Except he seemed to have moved into another stage: the standing-there-watching bit. It took him an outrageously long amount of time to realize that he was back at Baker Street, the paramedics were there now, crouching down over a man's body( for he was certain it was a man) alongside with a frighteningly pale looking Mary and a fussing Mrs. Hudson.

 

_John._

 

Sherlock span around, suddenly frantic, like that time he found John stripped to a bomb. He'd been convinced that the man'd been kidnapped. But not like  _that_...When he later tore and all but threw the charged coat away, Sherlock hadn't been sure if he wanted to yell at John for his stupidity or hug him.

 

"John!" he called, running forward and he could see a hand sticking out. "Let me get to..."

 

But when he got closer, he saw the metal glint of a sliver frame and black leather of a watch. Mycroft gave it to him for his thirty fourth birthday. Sherlock frowned. It was  _his_  watch. He was wearing it this morning. He looked down at his wrist: he's still wearing it  _now_.

 

Sherlock edged closer and now he knew it wasn't John lying there. _It's me._ He watched with widened from shock eyes as the blood from his chest had seeped through his shirt. Though the red spot was a little one, it still sent an inaudible sensation through his body.

 

He span away, taking his head in his hands.  _This, isn't right. This cannot be happening. This isn't real. Can't be real._ He must've fallen asleep in the armchair.  _No! Stop, please, stop! Please, wake u_ p!

 

"Sherlock!" He jerked his head up at John's voice. "Don't close out, Sherlock."

 

"John, I'm here! I'm right here..." His voice trailed into a whisper as it became obvious that he had went unheard. When he turned around fully, the medics had already ushered John away from the body -him- and he could hear the older one saying to the rookie that the patient -he- most likely had an internal bleed, explaining the lack of blood on the shirt.

 

  
_But am I dead?_  The Sherlock Holmes who was lying on the floor by the armchair was surrounded by a team of men and women who were performing frantic ablutions over him and constantly checking his pulse. 

 

A sob-like sound brought him back to present( or whenever) and Sherlock saw Mary, with a near terrified expression on her face, put a shaking hand over her lips. The woman, then, took a tentative step forward and carefully reached for her husband. But John didn't say anything. Just clenched his jaw and flinched away from her touch, as if he had been burnt. And Mary didn't try her chances again. She, once again, covered her mouth with the palm of her hand. That's when Sherlock realized, that she was  _praying_. He could practically feel her praying.

 

Which also made him think that he was dead. That and the fact that his body seemed to be completely numb. He didn't feel anything, though to look at him, lying there unconscious and sweat damped, with a tube stuck into his throat, he should be in agony.

 

Sherlock was pondering these things when the medic with the freckles and red hair, who had been working on him, answered his question.

 

"His Glasgow coma is a three. We need to get him to the hospital.  _Now_."

 

Soon enough, they were already loading him into an ambulance car; the redhead climbed into the back alongside with John, and Sherlock could only follow the two men. As the medic adjusted his IV with one hand and his monitors with the other, John used the opportunity to scuttle closer to him. 

 

He smoothed a lock of hair from Sherlock's forehead. "You hang in there." John told him, and Sherlock wondered if he could. 

 

* * *

"He looks-"

 

"Philip,  _don't_ -"

 

"-awful."

 

Sergeant Donovan resisted the urge to run a hand over her face and shot Anderson a look that should have wounded.

 

The man cringed under the heated intensity of Sally's glare and hurried to explain. "That is er-not to say that he won't recover."

 

Sally rolled her eyes at his lame response and mouthed. "Idiot."

 

"I was an idiot for agreeing to come, while you're here." Anderson hissed back.

 

"Well, one could only hope you'd improve."

 

Gregory Lestrade sighed irritably, hiding his face in his hands. The three of them were supposed to be trying to lift John's mood, but they were making terrible progress with it so far. And it wasn't even because the good doctor had no mood to begin with, no. It was because Sally Donovan and  _Silvia_  Anderson couldn't stop queering and clashing at each other, like a pair of overgrown teenage-girls, at every given chance. 

 

"Can you two stop this madness _for once_!?"

 

"No. No, it's fine Greg, really." John said pleasantly. "I appreciate the company."

 

Greg opened his mouth to protest, but then stopped and watched, amused, as John gently grasped Sherlock's hand between both his palms in what was obviously a practiced move.

 

The inspector wondered if the good doctor even realized how open and natural he had become to the detective's presence and how blatantly obvious he was in showing his affections towards Sherlock. On second thought, there was nothing surprising in that. From when Lestrade first came to visit his friend in the hospital two weeks ago, Sherlock had looked like he was inches away from right death, and from the way John was behaving, the man also believed in that.

 

"He does look better, you know. He breathes more easily now." Greg encouraged, moving his stool closer to the doctor's. "And I saw his attending physician on my way, and he said that the wound's almost sealed shut."

 

It was true. The fever was gone and the wound was healing without infection, the color was already seeping back into his skin. His face, however, was still dangerously thin and had grown a trifle thinner in the two years that he had been on run. But although Sherlock hasn't woken yet, his condition has considerably improved since he's been dragged out of his flat.

 

John smiled at him gratefully, which was still a rather rare occurrence, after the two weeks that Sherlock has spent unconscious in the hospital.

 

"Cheer up, Dr. Watson." Anderson took over, smiling beamingly. "If Sherlock Holmes could do something as impossible as survive the fall down the St. Barts' Hospital, he surely can heal from a bulle- _Ow_ , woman!"

 

"We said he was impossible, but not  _invincible_ , you moron." Donovan spat at him, looking proud for having elbowed the man in the ribs.

 

"Well, you weren't there that day, so your judgement is moot." Anderson retorted, straightening his posture and brushing off imaginary dust off his coat. It seemed like a correct thing to do. "And do you know what he told me, when I asked him about it? He said it was a  _trick_. A magical trick that he could do..."

 

"THAT IS ENOUGH!" Lestrade bellowed out suddenly and violently, making Donovan jump on her place, and Anderson, almost bite his tongue, while hurrying to snap his mouth shut.

 

Fortunately John seemed rather pensive at their conversation and chose not to react in any way. And Sally, deciding to follow Anderson's lead, before Greg could get more annoyed with them, let out an indignant huff and turned away.

 

There was a brief moment of silence and only then, did Donovan's gaze land on John and Sherlock's interlaced fingers, contrasting on the white hospital sheets. Had it been another time and another situation, Sally would have surely pointed it out with some ingenious wit of hers or at the very least, would have raised a questioning eyebrow at the two. But now, she only had the heart to throw a sympathetic half-smile in their direction.

 

If Sherlock had died, Sally was quite sure that John would have never been able to forgive himself. Especially now, when the whole issue with Mary hasn't really been resolved. They didn't know much about what happened between the two Watson's, but it was surely eating up the good doctor. And speaking of the devil...

 

"John, where's Mary?"

 

Greg whipped his head up and glared disapprovingly at Anderson, while Donovan didn't even fight back the groan of annoyance that escaped her lips. Whenever Mary Morstan was mentioned, it would bring out John's melancholy and as a result, there was an unspoken agreement between the yarders, to avoid the subject as much as possible, and if not, at least try to approach it as gently as possible.

 

Anderson has superlatively approached it with as much delicacy as hitting someone over the head with a wooden bat.

 

"Oh." John said, after a surprised moment. "She's back in her old flat. For the times being, at least. Before we decide what to do...next."

 

"Are you two going to...get back together?"

 

One of these days, the detective inspector thought grimly, Anderson would learn how to choose his words. And hopefully it would happen sometime in the very near future, or else Greg might actually die from a heart attack. Sally was gesturing rather violently at the man,  _to stop, stop talking for the love of God_ , but Anderson completely missed Donovan's sad attempt at damage control. 

 

Fortunately the good doctor only glanced at them with wild amusement. "We haven't spoken much, truth be told. We're just waiting for the opportune time to finally...settle things between us."

 

Then John looked down at the sleeping face of the detective and  _oh,_  here was that look of melancholy again.

 

Greg cleared his throat, rising to his feet. "Like I said, that's quite enough for now. We'll leave you.  _Two_." He corrected himself quickly and waited until Anderson and Donovan have gone out of the room, before he continued. "John, if there's something I can do- anything. You must only call me. If you want to get out of here for awhile...or if there's something you need, and I can bring it..."

 

"Don't count on it." John smiled. "You're about to touch a number of doctors on their tenderest nerve - the pocketbook."

 

Lestrade grinned back. He reflected, not for the first time, how good it was to have someone of Watson's character, around.

 

Greg admired forthrightness and swift decisions, mostly because those were methods he used himself as a detective. With swift decisions you sometimes made mistakes, but on the whole you got a lot more done, and your average of hits improved as time went on. Quickness - of speech and thought, as well as action - was something Gregory Lestrade had learned in courtrooms long before he ever thought of finding his destiny behind an ID's desk.

 

And while John had obviously proved to possess the both qualities, Greg truly hoped that the man would not rush the proceeding of the current events, knowing all too well what sort of a thing marriage was. He had learned it the hard way, after all. 

 

John thanked him with a level of sincerity, looking visibly relaxed, and as Greg finally walked out of the door, he dared to hope he was leaving the good doctor with lighter spirits, if not full contentment. 

 

And the man probably would have stayed that way, had his phone not chimed with a message alert, and if he hadn't soon been greeted with the following text. 

 

**We need to meet. Now, if possible. -Mary**

 

Why was it, John thought dryly, rubbing roundly at his eyes, that whenever he thought of Mary, she would either appear behind him like a summoned demon or would, undoubtedly, remind him of her existence? John suspected it was by some dark, supernatural power, that only women and specifically _wives_ , possessed. 

 

The good doctor stared at the mobile screen for a long while, wondering how to act, and what Sherlock would have said, had the man been awake now.

 

* * *

"John, will you  _please_  stop thinking? It's awfully distracting." Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh at the lack of change and turned his head sixty grades, just to show the man how displeased he was. "I asked if you wou-  _ah_ , right. You can't hear me." he huffed with a note of annoyance and only slight hint of despair. "Well, go on torturing your silly little brain, until we're  _both_  exhausted."

 

But the man seated near him, didn't so much as blink in his direction. Like pretty much, the rest of the world, Sherlock thought grimly.

 

Among the few things that Sherlock Holmes could name that he openly hated would probably be: Mycroft, public transportations, Anderson, Christmas,  _Mycroft_ , that hideous deerstalker...

 

And hospitals now, were confidently being added and moved on right to the top of that list.

 

When his ambulance got to the nearest hospital, the medics rushed him inside and immediately took him into a small room with bright lights. A doctor had dabbed some orange stuff onto the side of his chest and then rammed a small plastic tube in him. Another doctor shone a flashlight into his eye. "Non-responsive." he had told the nurse. 

 

Then they rushed him out of the ER and into the elevator. Sherlock had to jog to keep up. And right before the doors closed, he noticed that John was there. His best friend was rushing around the hospital hall, his face a mask of worry and concentration. And the one time that the detective had actually attempted to comfort someone, he had realized that he  _couldn't_. Literally. 

 

Now, he was in the hospital corridor, sitting beside one oblivious John Watson, who kept thinking depressing thoughts, which were of no use to Sherlock's nerves and sanity. Brilliant, just... _brilliant_! 

There were lots of doctors and nurses in blue and green scrubs walking by, in front of them, but none of them seemed to notice the detective's presence either.

 

As another nurse ran into the waiting room with a bag of blood in her hand, Sherlock began wondering, about this...state he was in. If he was not dead - which was still under a big questioning mark - so he could only  _assume_  that he wasn't. But if not, he wasn't in his body either. Could he go anywhere?

 

_Am I a ghost?_

 

  
_No_. Sherlock waved off the absurd thought immediately. Not only because it simply couldn't be true, but also, he had tried a little  _something_ , before spotting John in the corridor, to gather more data. Just for the sake of experiment, he had decided to try a simple maneuver. He had walked into a wall, expecting that he'd float through it and come out the other side. Except that what happened when he walked into the wall was that he hit a wall. And rather painfully actually. 

 

His line of thoughts was soon interrupted by the sound of John's ringtone.  _Oh, yes, do go on and answer it,_  Sherlock thought irritably as John fumbled in his pockets trying to find his phone.

 

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." A brief moment of silence. A sigh. "I don't know, he's still inside."

 

Sherlock looked up, surprised at the low tone and the detective felt the air being knocked off his lungs, when he could see actual tears glistening in the doctor's eyes. Then the realization, that his friend...his  _best_  friend might actually be blaming himself for the happened, hit him, and it was awful.

 

"John." Sherlock choked out, hoping, by all means,  _praying_ , that the man would hear him. "It is  _not_  your fault."

 

"Yes, it is! I should've noticed that something was off." John snapped, his grip on the phone so tight that Sherlock could see the man's knuckles whitening. "But I was so miffed at Mary, that I couldn't...didn't. What sort of a doctor I am after this?"

 

Sherlock recoiled at that and jumped to his feet. "Surely better than these imbeciles who found an alternative for narco-"

 

"What sort of a  _friend_  I am?" John finished, his voice barely a breath.

 

"Oh, John..." His throat suddenly felt too tight, and no more words would come out. He didn't care if John couldn't hear him, wouldn't hear him; he needed the man to know that it was all nonsense, that John was one of the - the best thing that ever - could ever happen to him. 

 

The next moment, however, when Sherlock took one step towards John; his hand reached out, ready to risk it and steal a touch, he once again found himself back in the dimly lit hallway, in his Mind Palace, standing in front of a door labeled ' _Fatality_ '.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird chapter is weird. Thank you for reading, hope the timelines didn't confuse you( a lot). Tell me what you liked, tell me what you didn't like. Constructive criticism is also highly encouraged and appreciated. :)


	4. A Tender Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back with more angst...BUT there is also some fluff in this one. 
> 
> There's also plenty of Mary/John feels, so be prepared.
> 
> [This story is now being betaed by Nickygp. Thank you so much!]

John sat down to eat lunch, alone, while Mrs. Hudson served him silently and decorously; the hospital room was now alive with visitors and nurses. At least John would be at peace with himself for leaving Sherlock's side. Even if for a few hours.

  
At three-thirty promptly, John Watson went down to his old flat, where Mary was waiting for him. Her dressing was casual; black trousers and a navy blue vest, tucked at the waist, that showed off her figure. She glanced down at the clock over the coffee table and nodded approvingly at John's promptness.

  
"You should really take the car" she said after a few minutes of silence. "The gas bill always goes up during the winter."

  
He didn't know whether or not she had wanted to annoy him with her offer, but she had.

"I'll make it up in tips, perhaps." he joked half heartily and she let out a dry chuckle.

  
Then they both froze where they stood. Mary looked at him, and John gazed back at her so intently that she wanted to hide. There they were: husband and wife, standing before each other, neither talking nor moving. There was John - her husband - standing right in front of her, at last, but not even Mary's smart tongue could come to her rescue now. And there was Mary - his wife - yet John couldn't help but wonder if it had always been this awkward to communicate with this woman. None of the words that flowed so easily on his blog would come to him now.

  
John had no idea how long they would have stood staring at each other, if Mary hadn't begun walking towards him; her steps slower the closer she got. The woman seemed almost relieved when John did not move away from her.  
It gave John the courage he needed.

  
"Mary-"

  
"Yes?" Mary said, all but leaping at the word.

  
"I don't...really know what to say." John admitted with a soft laugh, finding a sudden interest in his shoes. "I just...hope you understand that I was ground down to the bone. It took me all ten days at the hospital to think about it and...I think we'd best..."

  
"Both go our separate wonderful ways." Mary said, before he could even finish.

  
John furrowed his brows. "That's not what I was going to say..."

  
"I know. That's what  _I_  meant to say."

  
"I don't want to make hasty decisions. It would be wise to wait until all this mayhem settles down. Then we will..."

  
"I killed him, John." Mary told him, and John stopped speaking so abruptly that Mary almost feared for his teeth, given how they'd cracked together. "That shot was intended to kill Sherlock."

  
"Can we not discuss this now? We're not ready for that yet. You've been pressured, I understand that, I think. Sherlock said that-"

  
"-to protect me, our marriage and, most importantly, you. He kept silent for me. He's sacrificed his happiness, his own life to ensure your future. The least I can do now, is return the favour. And I know that I'm making the right decision, when I say - I want a divorce."

  
He turned to look at her. There were the words one could never take back. Had he just heard them? Two years. They'd been together for two years. Weren't there different rules for saying them after so long?

  
"Well?"

  
John shook his head sadly. "Well, give a man a little time to think. It's pretty...sudden."

  
"What's so sudden about it?" she asked incredulously."Do you love me, John?"

  
Was this his reality, now? John screwed his eyes shut. Looking back upon his past, it seemed to him the calmest and healthiest period of his life had been the years he had spent on the battlefield. Coming back to London and throwing himself into adventures with the detective was another story altogether; a valuable one which he cherished and held close to his heart. For some reason he had never gone back - fearing perhaps that his memories of a particularly pleasant segment of his manhood would be spoiled by a later examination. Fearing that his thoughts of Sherlock Holmes would be changed, just like he himself had changed, when connecting his life to Mary Morstan.

  
The memory of this particular conversation, though, John never wished to relive again. 

  
"I...do." 

  
His hesitance was all the evidence she needed, for Mary smiled sadly and said. "But not nearly as much as you love him."

  
"Mary..."

  
"No." Mary put up a hand, interrupting him. "What I had to tell you is that I'm quitting my job and leaving the city. You - you both have become too precious to me, for me to cause you any more suffering. I will not be the villain in this story, John. I will  _not_."

  
John opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head in a way that said,  _let's not even go there._

  
Then she proceeded to  _go there_ , telling him about the duo's complicated friendship, about how Sherlock's odd behaviour before his wedding wasn't just anxiousness. About how John, without even realizing it, longed to recover and bring back the old days with his friend. 

  
While she talked, he looked around the small flat - their flat - the one she had designed and furnished, while he had mostly tried to keep up. John was not made for domesticity: it bored him out of his mind to have such a monotonous life. Still it felt wrong to hear her voice all of those facts. 

  
"He loves you, too, you know."she said softly, and it was like someone had dropped a ball in her throat, and she couldn't swallow it and talk at the same time."his face looked manic. That day at Baker Street, when you got up and went off on me...I swear I could hardly recognise him - he looked crazed, and in a terrible way overjoyed. You know, I think even if you had wanted to throw me out, I think he would have tried to stop you...God his face...I've never felt so guilty in my life..."

  
 _I think_. She kept saying that.  _I think_. Two hundred times now, if he had counted correctly. Perhaps because she knew that if she took the _I think_  out, her words would sound harsher.

  
But she was probably right, he thought. Even if Mary had whipped out a gun and pointed it at the detective, Sherlock still wouldn't have hesitated to try and defend Mary. So John said nothing, letting her speak.

  
"I think at the moment I understood him better than I ever had before." Mary swallowed heavily and continued. "That look...I know that look. It was the look of a man who didn't care whether he lived or died."

  
John closed his eyes tightly, as if only the memory of that day, brought physical pain to the good doctor. Mary was being unnecessarily accurate. John Watson didn't need another reminder that his own recklessness was the reason his dearest friend was struggling in a restless slumber. And to discover now that he might have been the cause of Sherlock's other scars - emotional ones being the worst so far - was more than distressing to him.

  
Mary, as if sensing his line of thoughts, put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "I know, it's not a...pleasant thing to know about a man you've loved for such a long time." Then she fell silent. There was nothing John could say that would acquit himself or make her change her mind. There was nothing he could do to alleviate her sorrow, for he didn't know how to lessen his own.

  
She withdrew her hand, and John could practically feel the absence of the supporting warmth. Maybe the touch wasn't all that helpful, but it was also not entirely uncalled for.

  
When she was done, she cast her eyes down, almost closing them."I'll let you know, when I settle in. Have a nice, peaceful winter, John."

  
Too shocked to say anything else, John said. "You too. Call me if you need anything, or if you want to talk to me about - well," he said lamely, "well - about the divorce or something."

  
"I'm not gonna call you with the divorce." Mary said firmly, "unless you want me to."

  
John sighed and shook his head in despair. What did he want?

  
Mary smiled warmly and put a hand on his husband's cheek. "Don't hesitate now. It's for the best. I can't live with another man." she said, almost whispering. "At least, not for the time being. I can't live with  _you_ , either." She smiled wanly. "That makes everything just hunky-dory, doesn't it?"

  
He took her hand, put it to his lips, and kissed it.

  
"I still think we're hurrying. Maybe we really should wait until She-"

  
"No. Don't say anything now," Mary said, giving his hand a warning squeeze. "you're in a stressed situation, and so am I. Better to keep quiet and both go through with this. And remember, my doctor - he'll be good to you. I'm sure that Sherlock will give you everything I could never hope to give."

  
That's when it happened. That is when his heart broke open right in his chest. Two years. They'd been together two years. They had a life together. For the first time since his awkward proposal, John felt like an complete and utter moron in front of this woman. 

  
His gaze softened as he cupped her face gently. "Don't say that. You know that's not true. You've never been anything but good to me, Mary Morstan. When Sherlock died... Those two years...were the most horrific I ever had to live through. And I say that as someone who got shot in Afghanistan. You were there for me. You were the one who kept me from losing my mind when I was close to breaking. You saved me."

  
"I didn't save you John. I simply showed you how to save yourself." She lifted her head and tried to smile at him. "Sherlock Holmes is your true savior, and for that I'm forever grateful to him."

  
Mary forgot her sadness for just long enough to look pleased about this, as if it proved something that she wasn't leaving him to someone John had been insecure about, but rather for someone else entirely. But then again, wasn't Sherlock Holmes  _another_  person after all? 

  
When she looked back up at him, it was with a look that said,  _Are we done?_ John knew that look. He knew all of her looks, of course. They'd been together for two years. 

  
He gave her a look back.  _I don't know. I need to understand this._  
Suddenly Mary's eyes widened and she stood up, reaching for her purse. "I've bought a small present for him." 

  
She fished in the pockets of her bag and brought out a small yellow pin. "Saw this at the shop the other day. Couldn't resist." she said with a small grin. "Hope this'll cheer him up when he wakes. I have been in hospitals a few times myself and I know the dark moments when even the smallest things can lift the clouds. Do you think he'll like it?"

  
He looked at Sherlock's gift and let out a silent gasp. It was a fridge pin with a carving of a bee, with a detective hat, and magnifying glass.

  
John opened and closed his mouth a few times; he was speechless. Then he threw his head back and laughed; laughed until his sides began to hurt. Mary too let out a chuckle, but it was one of relief and joy.

  
He took several calming breaths before saying. "He'll  _love_  it. Definitely, he'll love it." John glanced at his wife and her eyes were still red and tired, but there was trust, acceptance and so much affection, John felt the air being knocked off his lungs. "Thank you."

  
Mary smiled. "Give my love to Sherlock. And tell him that he has my blessing. The both of you." her eyes showing the sorrow and the understanding of finally knowing John's pain. 

  
She looked relieved about this part too. But John couldn't help but wonder why she thought that the fact that she was leaving him to someone - and a man at that - who he hadn't slept with  _yet_ , was making her feel better. How could that possibly make  _anyone_  feel better?

  
"Where will you go? What will you do?" John asked before he could stop himself.

  
"I haven't decided yet. Some place. Any place."

  
"If you do go - and I implore you to think it over carefully, you are in no condition now to make drastic decisions - if you do go, will you let me know where I can find you? I have too few friends to see my best one disappear out of my life."

  
"Of course, I'll let you know." Mary said with a small, sad smile. "I couldn't bear not hearing you insult someone from time to time. Even if that someone will most likely be me."

  
Then he bent and kissed the top of her head lightly. She stood rigidly. "You've been and are my pillar of strength and goodness, Mary." John said emotionally. "I want you to know that."

  
"Will you for Christ's sake stop sounding like a literal translation from Racine?" The woman choked out roughly, trying to hide how deeply John had touched her. The tears that were now freely trailing down her cheeks, gave her away, though. "And now get out of here, because for my own peace's sake, you have a detective to take care of."

* * *

  
There were so many tubes attached to him, that he could not count them all: one down his throat,breathing for him, one down his nose, keeping his stomach empty, one in his vein, hydrating him; several on his chest, recording his heartbeat; another on his finger, recording his pulse. 

  
Sherlock stood over the bleeping tubed lifeless form that was him, staring intently. It felt...weird. 

  
By now, he had figured out that he didn't have any supernatural abilities. He couldn't float through walls or dive through stairwells. He could only do the things he'd be able to do in real life, except that, apparently, what he did in this world was invisible to everyone else: no one looked twice when he opened a door or hit the elevator buttons. He could touch things and even manipulate door handles, but he could not feel anything or anyone. There were also these occasional and unexpected relocations to his Mind Palace and back, which just didn't make sense. But then again nothing that had been happening to him for the past week( weeks? months?) seemed to make sense, either.

  
Sherlock was now alone in his hospital room. He could hear from the outside, the hushed sympathetic tone of the social worker who was speaking to his parents.  _The joy_.

  
"I wish there was something we could do." his mother said. "I feel so useless just waiting."

  
He couldn't quite make out the rest of the conversation because of the footsteps that were coming closer and closer to the door. Out of instinct Sherlock took a few steps forward, as if to meet his visitors halfway, then stopped, remembering that his parents probably wouldn't even feel his presence.

  
When they came through the double doors into the hospital room, both of them stopped, as if repelled by an invisible barrier. His mother took his father's hand: Sherlock tried to remember when was the last time he saw them hold hands. The third person was his social worker, who trailed in shortly after them, and the detective felt a sudden wave of disappointment wash over him. 

  
Where the hell was John?

  
John was the one he really wanted to see. He wished he knew where John was so he could try to go there. 

  
The social worker pulled over two chairs, setting them up at the foot of his bed. 

  
"Sherlock Holmes, your parents are here." She then motioned for them to sit down. "I'll leave you alone now."

  
Sherlock was startled when he heard the social worker say his name. It was a jarring reminder that it was him they were talking about. 

  
"Hello, son." Father said. He hadn't called him that in ages. Mother walked slowly to where they(  _we_?) were, taking little gulps of air as she came. 

  
"Can he hear us?" she choked, turning to the social worker. "If we talk to him, he'll understand?"

  
The woman straightened and put her hands on her hips. "Don't you doubt for a second that he can hear you." she said to them. "He's aware of everything that's going on here. You might think that the doctors or nurses or all this is running his condition..." she said, gesturing to the wall of medical equipment. "Nuh-uh. He's running his condition. Maybe he's just biding his time. So you talk to him. You tell him to take all the time he needs, but to come on back. Tell him, you're all waiting for him."

  
Sherlock stood there, non-disturbing, until the social worker left, with the promise to return later. 

  
His parents sat in silence for a minute. Then his mother reached over and took his hand and started prattling on about the orchids she was growing in her garden, about some love affair that had broken off somewhere in the neighborhood, about how Mikey had been refusing to eat her cookings recently, and how she'd constantly tell him that the whole idea of keeping a diet was ridiculous.

  
Meanwhile his father was sitting very still as his hands shook gently on his lap. His father had never been much of a talker, so it must have been hard for him to be ordered to chat with Sherlock now. Sherlock smiled slightly, feeling a pang of sympathy and guilt for the old man. 

  
"Do you think he decides?" Father asked, suddenly, turning to his mother. 

  
"Decides what?"

  
Father looked uncomfortable. He shuffled his feet. "You know?  _Decides_." he whispered. That's when Sherlock realized that they were probably trying to keep him from hearing their conversation and, despite the stressful situation, the urge to roll his eyes was overwhelming.

  
"What are you talking about?" His mother sounded exasperated and tender at the same time. 

  
"I don't know what I'm talking about. You're the genius here."

  
"What does that have to do with Sherlock?"

  
"If he's not gone now, but still here...what if he wants to leave...? What if he doesn't want to fight for his life anymore?"

  
"It doesn't work like that!" Mother snapped. 

  
"But the-" Father tried to reason, but the inquiry was over when another nurse came in and asked them to leave, as there were other visitors waiting outside.

   
When they rose to leave, and Sherlock saw the pained expression on his mother's face and the tightness of his father's jaw, he though that one day, maybe he would tell them that he had never meant to scare them with not responding for days or his unhealthy habit of not eating anything. 

  
And it's while contemplating this, that Sherlock thought about what the woman had said, and suddenly he understood what his father had been asking his mother. The old man had listened to the social maker, too. He got it before Sherlock did.

  
According to them, it was up to him. If he chose to stay. If he chose to live.

  
It was not up to the doctors. It was up to him: it was his decision. And that terrified him more than anything else had before, in his life.

  
Then the double doors opened once again, and Sherlock turned and stood, paralyzed. 

  
He was there.

  
John was there. Truly, unmistakably there. And Sherlock was happy,  _so_  happy to see him; see the familiar sight of that blonde-gray hair, that pair of deep blue eyes, though red rimmed and exhausted from the obvious lack of sleep and nightmares, but this was John. He had wanted for John to be there, so much.

  
The detective rushed to greet him, then remembered that John couldn't see him, and couldn't even feel his presence.

   
John walked to the bed and slumped back in one of the chairs. He took off his coat, that was black and gray and that Sherlock had coveted since he had bought it, and positioned it over the back of the chair in what was obviously a practiced move. 

  
"I bet you got bored of me already." John said with a hiccup attempt at laugh. "They don't allow more than two people in here at once, so your parents will come back in a little later. I swear, the motto of this hospital is 'There shall be no pleasure within these walls.'"

  
Sherlock chuckled softly and with a shake of his head sat down in a chair beside John. It felt so natural, the way John was talking to him, like he always did. Other than the nurses who told him to hang on, and his parents who were talking about the after life and gardening, no one had really talked to him since the incident.

  
They all talked  _about_  him. Talked about how grave his condition was. Grave sounded bad. Grave was were people went when things didn't work out there.

   
So yes, he felt no shame finding immense pleasure in simply listening to John chatter away about the most random of things.

  
He watched John blink a few times and whip his hands together as if to say 'enough of that'. Then he reconsidered and blurted, unable to stop himself. "Pease don't die, Sherlock. I can understand why you'd want to...no, actually I  _can't_. Think about this, think about your parents...think about me. I...I can't bury you again, Sherlock.  _Please_  don't make me bury you..." John trailed off, his voice cracking, and Sherlock had to look away.

  
Sherlock was scared to look at him, to look at his face. The man was finally there, and Sherlock couldn't bear to look at him. He'd seen John cry only twice before. Once when he had died, and another time when he had come back from the dead. Oh, the irony.

  
Both times, it had damn nearly torn Sherlock's heart out. If John Watson cried now, it would surely  _kill_  Sherlock. Damn this 'his choice' business. That alone would do it.

* * *

  
"Mycroft is actually worried sick about you, you know? I've never seen him like this...so restless. He rarely comes in, but he's almost always here...with Greg, Mrs. Hudson, or your parents. And God, are they anxious!"

  
John paused and allowed himself this moment of intimacy with his best friend. His eyes roamed over the peaceful expression on Sherlock's face and the curly hair that fanned across the white pillow like a halo. He was relieved to see that colour had more or less returned to the detective's face, but the fact that Sherlock had remained deeply unconscious for the past few weeks was more than unnerving.

  
John sighed and carried on with his daily report, not daring to let his mind wander in that direction. He just couldn't afford to lose hope. No.

  
"I saw Mary again today." he cleared his throat out of instinct. "We're sorting out some environment business, but since there really isn't much to resolve, I think it'll be over by the end of the week." With a soft breath, he reached out and curled his fingers around Sherlock's, before continuing. "She was asking about you. Wanted to know how we're doing. Said she'll be leaving soon, dunno where, and that she's sorry that she won't be able to thank you properly and apologize. Oh, and the yarders and even some of your previous clients are already organizing a feast, for when you wake up. They all have so many plans, once you recover."

  
Instantly John's face softened and he dropped his voice to a near whisper. "As do I, Sherlock. God knows I have so many things planned for us. You know, Billy suggested a few useful tricks for the blog to attract more clients, I'm thinking about trying them out. And oh, there are so many puns we can pull on Anderson..." his voice broke and he leaned even closer to the detective. "But the first thing I'm going to do when you wake up is apologize for all the damage and hurt that I've caused you. For being so blind...for being so stupid. And, if you would somehow...by any chance want to have me again...I'd want to move back in Baker Street. I would like to tell you how bloody important you are to me and let everyone know that you are not a fucking sociopath. Because from now on you'll have me."

  
John nodded to himself and continued talking with the same soft tone from before. "I would actually like you to meet my sister. Now that I've seen all of your family, I think it would only be fair for you to finally have a glimpse of my household. Harry can be quite decent, when she is not drunk...and she'll only be delighted to tell you some embarrassing stories of my youth." John chuckled as he imagined Sherlock's sheer joy at the chance to tease and make fun of the doctor. But if it meant that Sherlock would be awake for it, then, John thought, he would gladly endure it a thousand times over. 

  
He smiled fondly. "I think she'll like you. Of course she won't show it at first, but once she sees what an amazing being you are, I'm sure she'll love you."

  
"And for the record..." John licked his lips in a nervous manner. "I still stand by what I said. You are the wisest and most human being I've ever had the good fortune of knowing."

  
The doctor sat in the comfortable silence for a while longer, not really wanting to move from the spot. Apparently, the detective didn't even have to be awake to be a calming presence for John: as life had proved, Sherlock could even worm his way into his nightmares and make everything better with only a few words. And that's when John realized that he had already fallen into a comfortable routine, where he would visit his friend, sit by his side as he told Sherlock all about his day, sometimes even complaining about his problems, and try to urge his recovery as he desperately waited for Sherlock to wake up.

   
There were also days, when it took all of his self control not to cling to Sherlock and  _beg_  him to wake up. But John's faith in the detective was stronger than that.

  
John smiled fondly and reached over to brush away a lock of hair from Sherlock's eye. "Unfortunately, I have to go now. So much paperwork at the clinic, it will surely damage my sanity." And, with only a touch of hesitance and a glance over his shoulder, John leaned in and pressed a light kiss on Sherlock's temple. "But I'll come back tomorrow, of course. You just...get better." 

  
The good doctor straightened up with a sigh and was about to turn away, when he was pulled back to the mattress by his coat. He frowned and looked down to see how to free it from the bed and when John noticed that it was Sherlock's fingers clutching the edge of his jacket in a deathly grip; his confusion deepened.

  
Then realisation hit him like a pile of rocks, and he all but jerked his head up, expectant and hopeful. 

  
 _Sherlock_.

  
John thought he'd stopped breathing when his wild eyes met the gentle set of ocean blue eyes, only half open. He froze on his spot, staring, mouth suddenly dry and heart beating at least ten times faster now, as Sherlock Holmes gazed blearily at him for a few seconds, before muttering tiredly. "J'hn, tell the idi'ts that the m'rphine's ended."

  
A bark of incredulous laughter was the only sound that left John's lips as he ran a quick hand over his face, disbelieving. But oh holy  _hell_ , it was incredibly good to hear the bastard speak again and of course the first sentence after a coma should include an insult in it. He had almost forgotten how breathtakingly beautiful, yes exactly  _beautiful_ , the detective's eyes were. He could gaze into those eyes forever, so long as the detective didn't close them again.

  
Not losing one more second , John bent over and all but launched himself at Sherlock, hugging him fiercely, which earned him a surprised huff from the detective. John held the man with gentleness, with such  _tenderness_ , as if Sherlock would break under his hands. As if he'd be torn away if he let go.

  
 _Thank you, God, thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou_.

  
John's hands were trembling and he couldn't stop,  _wouldn't_  stop pulling the man closer to his chest and planting messy kisses along those sharp cheekbones and Sherlock's forehead.

  
And for the first time in his life, of course with much effort, Sherlock Holmes wrapped a long, IV free arm around the doctor's neck and only gladly returned the hug that was being offered.

* * *

  
"John?"

  
"Yes?"

  
"Is...Is that a bee in a deerstalker?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm debating whether or not I should end the story here. It does seem like a perfectly satisfying ending to me. Tell me what you think, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this story makes sense...? Because come on, Sherlock was practically dead, and not to mention the internal bleeding and all. And I was absolutely furious at John's reactions in the series. Wah.
> 
> Anyways, hope you liked the first chapter and if there are people who have time, and would like to beta this story...that would be nice and I'd be very grateful since English is not my first language. At all. Here's my tumblr.
> 
> www.raggedydama.tumblr.com


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